


Demand

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Nate POV, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-06
Updated: 2008-11-06
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:18:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6077400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was expecting wake-up sex."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demand

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction ergo it never happened.
> 
> Written for [The Porn Paragraphathon](http://technosage.livejournal.com/258921.html). Prompt was Brad/Nate, sand. Original request can be found [here](http://technosage.livejournal.com/258921.html?replyto=6161769). Also posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/327352.html).

Nate breathed in deep and reached his arm out to the other side of the bed. His half-hard cock pressed against the mattress; he had an excellent idea of just how to utilize it.

His grasping hand found nothing but empty space and cool sheets. What the hell?

Nate raised his head to confirm that, no, Brad was not in bed with him. Dammit. There went his wake-up sex.

He rolled over to squint at the rest of the room. It was still a mess from their haphazard trip to the bed last night. Nate's underwear was charmingly hanging off the bedside lamp. But there was something missing—

Oh. The surfboard Nate had knocked into was nowhere in sight. Brad must have gone surfing then. Nate hoped that meant he hadn't really damaged the thing. Not that it was his fault, since _Brad_ was the one who'd shoved him against the doorjamb at an angle and thus sent him stumbling into whatever was propped by the door. Which in this case happened to be Brad's surfboard. Which made a very loud sound when it hit the floor, not that either of them had stopped to check on it. Especially not when they could be getting naked and doing things to each other.

Nate cradled his cock absently. Jesus, this was _sad_. He flew all this way to get laid and now he was jerking himself off in an empty apartment. Brad obviously had his priorities in order and they did not include Nate's dick.

He firmed his hand and quickened the pace, liking the tingling that spread through him. Even if Brad wasn't here, his _smell_ was, trapped in sheets and the air around them. Nate closed his eyes and breathed deep. It was just—knee-jerk recognition. Nate hadn't even realized he was aware of what Brad smelled like until Brad up and ditched him to be a typical California boy, off riding his board.

He was fully hard now, hand working himself, teasing the slickness at the head. This would be better if he knew where Brad kept the lube...but that would require stopping and—

"Taking matters into your own hand, I see." Brad's voice sounded from the doorway, sharp and amused.

Nate opened his eyes and found Brad in a wetsuit, eying him with a look that said 'I am a predator and will fuck your shit up.' But in a good way. His suit was open and pulled down to his waist; he was tan all over.

Nate sucked in a breath and held himself tight around the base of his cock. Brad's eyes flickered to his hand, then back to his face. He started forward—

"Don't even think about it."

Brad stopped moving immediately, but raised an eyebrow in question.

"You've got sand all over you," Nate rasped.

Brad looked down at himself, at the sand he'd tracked in the door. "Your observational skills appear to be intact," he said dryly. Nate gripped himself harder. He had the feeling Brad wasn't getting the point, especially not with the way he grinned and dropped his eyes to Nate's cock like he was considering the practical applications of holding his breath. 

Brad was quite accomplished at holding his breath. Among other things.

Right, did he have a point?

"I don't know how many times you've had sex on the beach, but it is not comfortable. Go take a shower and then we can talk," Nate finally said.

"Talk, will we?"

"Talk, suck, fuck," Nate offered, rather cruelly, he knew. Brad loved it when he got Nate to moan out everything he wanted.

Appreciation flared in Brad's eyes; he stepped to the side of the bed and thumbed Nate's bottom lip. "Poor, prissy officer, worried about getting his delicate ass all scratched up."

"Anything scratches up my ass, it's not gonna be _sand_ ," Nate muttered, then sucked Brad's thumb into his mouth. It was salty. He curled his tongue around it anyway.

Brad's breathing hitched. "Fine. But no getting off until I'm done." His eyes flicked to Nate's cock, still hard and leaking. Brad licked his lips, then pulled his hand back and moved to the bathroom. His reluctance was obvious. Since Brad wasn't one to be deterred from fucking Nate whenever he damn well pleased, that must mean he saw the wisdom of Nate's point. Or he was being sadistic and wanted to keep Nate hanging as a punishment.

Nate gritted his teeth as he heard the shower start. This was—not how he imagined his trip going. Then again, Brad was here, so the day was looking up. 

But. If Brad was here, why was Nate still in bed? He could be watching him soap himself up and wash away the remnants of sand and sea. Much better idea than staring at Brad's ceiling.

Nate got himself vertical and made his way to the bathroom, slowly—a process that wasn't too attractive, he guessed. Good thing no one was watching. 

Brad hadn't bothered to close the door so Nate could slump against the doorframe and look in on him.

The opaque shower door obscured the most interesting stuff, but he still got to see Brad's figure scrubbing his hair and then turning his face to the spray. It was far hotter than it should be, given everything Nate _couldn't_ see. He groaned slightly and tried to ignore the flash of lust that made him want to move his hand, get in there with Brad and scrub his hands all over that body, hell, anything.

He was...really quite pathetic some days.

Brad raised an eyebrow at him from the now half-open shower door. Water droplets trailed down his cheeks, chest, stomach. That—wasn't fair. "Harvard's turned you into a peeping Tom. If those Ivy League fucks were gonna make you a criminal, at least they could've gone the respectable felon route."

"I flew three thousand miles to see you, I'm damn-well going to see you," Nate said, a little breathless at water and lots and lots of Brad's skin.

Oh, right, this was why he didn't let Brad teach him to surf. They'd scandalize the locals.

Brad grinned, shook his head under the water like a particularly feral puppy. "I am gonna fuck you so hard when I get outta here. You should prepare yourself." Brad stilled. Then he pinned Nate with a speculative look. "You _should_ prepare yourself," he said, like this was a brilliant plan. "Lube's up there." He nodded at the medicine cabinet. 

Nate's breathing kind of stuttered at the idea of that. Was Brad just fucking with him—rather than fucking him, which could commence any time now—but no. The gleam in Brad's eyes said he was serious. Fuck. Nate had come in here to watch and now _he_ was the show. It was...a little disturbing how okay he was with that.

He flicked open the cabinet and snagged the Astroglide and a condom. He dropped the latter in the sink. Nate dealt with only having one hand by simply tipping the bottle on its side and ignoring that some oozed out onto the counter. Brad wouldn't care. Or rather, Brad would care more about Nate pressing a slick finger into himself than any mess he made in the process.

Nate muttered a curse at the odd angle and pushed his finger deeper. He spread his legs and twisted his hand but nope, this angle sucked and there was nothing to be done for it. He pulled back and added another finger, hissing at the feeling of it. Damn, even _he_ thought he was tight. Brad would be making tight-ass jokes if he were the one with fingers up Nate's ass. 

They—hadn't gotten to this last night. Frankly, he was a little shocked they'd made it to the bed at all. 

Nate scissored his two fingers and groaned, both at the stretch and at the heat that swept through him. He really had been looking forward to wake-up sex. Well, he'd been looking forward to waking up to Brad doing this...and then pounding into him like he hadn't in _months_. 

Nate worked himself open, little by little. He paused for more lube, added a third finger, at which point even Brad moaned. 

Nate focused on him and saw that he'd gone still, eyes pinned to Nate's hand, cock hard. He still had soap in odd places, like he'd just stopped to watch and forgotten all else. 

Nate tilted his hips back and bit his lip. Brad blinked very slowly.

"Brad," Nate reminded.

It worked. His head snapped up and he threw himself back under the spray, double-time. 

Still wasn't fast enough. Nate kept the fingers in his ass working, the ones around his cock still, and grunted out, "Any time you're ready, Brad. Don't mind me."

The water shut off and Brad half-heartedly swiped at himself with a towel. Then he was behind Nate, pressed skin to skin everywhere, and their eyes met in the mirror.

"When did you become such a little bitch?" His voice was almost amused. Almost because it was too rough with sex to fully get there. Brad's cock already pressed against him. 

"I was expecting wake-up sex," Nate informed him.

Brad's smile flashed brilliant under the bathroom lights. "Celibacy is not good for your constitution. I'm glad I'm not one of your Harvard friends." He fished the condom from the sink and made quick work of it, then the lube. 

"If you were my Harvard friend, celibacy wouldn't be an issue," Nate shot back.

Brad met his eyes in the mirror, something darker flickering in his look. He grasped Nate's wrist and pulled Nate's fingers out of himself. 

Nate groaned, both at the feeling and at the look. Then he groaned again when he felt the head of Brad's cock just press at his entrance. He gripped the counter with his free hand and braced himself. 

Brad quirked his lips. "Oh, no. I guarantee you going without would not be a concern." 

Nate opened his mouth to say something, but Brad pushed inside him just then and—and— _fuck_. It had been _too fucking long_. His moan was low and appreciative as Brad stilled just inside his body. Even Brad's chuckle couldn't bring him down, every nerve in his body screaming 'yes,' despite the tinge of pain. Hell, because of it. Who cared?

Nate relaxed, then opened his eyes and nodded at Brad in the mirror. "More," he said, gruff.

Brad pushed forward just an inch, retreated half as much, starting a slow, inexorable press _in._ Nate had to fight to keep his eyes from closing, wanted to watch, see Brad's expression as it flicked from iron-clad control to a hairsbreadth from shattering and back again.

Pain registered again. Nate hissed and Brad stopped and then it was breathing and sweating and staring at one another in the mirror and fuck, his cock hated him so goddamn much. And then the pain passed and he nodded again and Brad pressed even deeper, that slow rocking, until finally, fucking _finally_ , he was all the way inside. 

Jesus, it was about fucking time.

Brad gripped his hips tight, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. His mouth was open and pink. Nate could see the flush all over his skin.

"There might be something to the mirror," Nate muttered. Brad snorted.

And then he pulled out and thrust back in, angled _just perfectly_ , and Nate cried out and his body went molten and _fuck._ Screw rational thought, Nate would happily do anything so long as Brad kept this up.

Brad fucked him brutally, thoroughly, knew just what he liked. He leaned down and licked, nibbled at Nate's shoulder, neck, ear. There was sound—not that Nate could hear what the fuck he was saying over the rush in his head—and a tongue in his ear that made him cry out again, hoarse and desperate. Brad's hand on his cock was the limit, though. He couldn't see and his lip hurt, but he knew he was shaking his head because it was all too much for his body to handle.

He was going to come the instant he let go of himself, he knew. His cock _ached_.

Brad stroked his length once and Nate choked out a gasp. Then Brad's fingers plucked at Nate's hand—the only thing holding his orgasm at bay. As with all things, Brad was relentless about it. Brad fucked Nate with short, sharp thrusts _right_ where Nate needed him and he nibbled on his ear and crooned about how hard he was, how long it'd been, how good he felt under his fingers. Didn't he _want_ to fuck Brad's fist?

Nate resisted. As soon as he let go, Brad would jerk him off with that big hand of his. And that would be that, this would be done, and he really didn't want it to be over yet. Maybe ever.

Perpetual pre-orgasm, that sounded just fine to him.

Brad didn't stop talking about it, though. "—gonna come the second you let go, aren't you? How many strokes you think it'll take, hmm? One? Two? Have to get a cock ring and see what sounds I can make come out of that pretty little mouth of yours," he muttered into Nate's ear.

Nate moaned, but forced his eyes open because he was sure this was something to _see_.

He was right. Brad's hand fluttered against him and his body moved against Nate's with every driving thrust. His mouth was red and sweat beaded on his forehead and it was the hottest fucking thing Nate had seen in a while. Since the last time they'd met up, come to think of it.

Brad noticed him watching and pinned him with a look on his next thrust. "Let. Go," he said slowly, punctuating each with a press in.

Nate did, instantly.

Brad's hand tightened around him and even that was too much, heat shorting out his brain, and it was maybe one stroke and Nate was coming—world fading away, ringing in his ears, screaming rush of fire racing through every nerve. He felt Brad in him and around him, but was detached from it, thrown headfirst into a rush that pulled his mind one way and his body another. Time stretched as Nate's body pulsed and squeezed tight—

And then it suddenly snapped back into place, an unwelcome shock. Nate pressed his forehead to the mirror, breathed, and shook in the aftermath. Jesus. Had he hit his head? Entirely possible; he had no clue. Nor did he care. 

Brad was still inside him, panting against Nate's back, fingers absently stroking his hip. He must have come, too. Sometime.

The little shocks receded, slightly, and he could think again. Well, kind of, enough to know that he was gonna have some bruises. And he didn't give a good goddamn.

"You look smug as Encino Man getting commended by Godfather," Brad muttered. "It's slightly disturbing."

Nate huffed out a laugh; the mirror fogged from his breath. "Thank you, Brad, for bringing Encino Man into our pillow talk."

Brad bit him. "Fuck pillow talk. Not that it'd surprise me coming from you, prissy bitch that you are. You screamed my name," he informed Nate, as if this were proof of Nate's bitchness.

"Mm, I was inspired. You gonna get off me anytime soon or should I make you start paying rent?"

"Didn't know you were for sale." He carefully pulled himself off Nate, then pulled out.

Nate groaned at the feeling. "Celibacy is bad for my constitution," he said, then breathed.

Brad chuckled and tossed the condom. He grabbed a cloth, wiped them both.

Nate shivered at the touch, then pushed himself vertical, rolled his shoulders—"Did you _bite_ me?" He dipped his shoulder and peered at the mark in the mirror, red and angry.

"Inspired," Brad muttered close to his ear, then he bent and licked at the mark. 

A shudder went through Nate and his cock twitched, even though it was way too soon. He'd _just_ come all over Brad's sink, after all.

"That's what you get for not letting me into my own bed," Brad said as he headed for that bed. Nate followed, walking a little gingerly.

"If I had, there'd be sand in it right now and you wouldn't get to flop down and pass out." 

Brad flopped down. "If you had, I'd already _be_ passed out so I wouldn't give a fuck."

"Not after I killed you for such a painful orgasm." Nate crawled onto the bed after him and made him shove over and give him some room. Thankfully he obliged. A little.

"Oh, right, your baby-soft skin. That's really gay, has anyone ever told you?" Brad mumbled into his pillow. 

"Then it's probably a good thing I don't let Marines fuck my ass."

"Bitchy, bitchy." Brad sighed. He quickly covered Nate's mouth with his hand. "No more talking. You can bitch at me later and maybe I'll even suck you off to shut you up." Nate's body already liked the idea of that, so he just bit at Brad's hand and subsided.

Brad chuckled in a tired way and dropped his hand, but he didn't take his arm back. He might even be here when Nate woke up. They could try for proper wake-up sex this time.

Now that was something he could look forward to.

***

Fin. Comments are adored.


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